James Conway - In Cold Blonde

Not very heroic.

How would an audience feel watching Brad Pitt shoot the inert body of Scarlett Johansson just to make sure she was dead?

They’d hate it. It seemed so cowardly.

But what if she was still alive? He was sure he saw her move.

Keeping the gun aimed at her, Blake slowly stepped toward the body. When he reached her he saw a pool of blood gathering beneath her.

That’s good, he thought. But blood alone wasn’t enough to prove she was dead. He nudged her stomach with his foot.

Alice’s right hand shot out, the scalpel slashing Blake’s ankle, severing his Achilles tendon.

Blake’s leg collapsed. Furious he pulled the trigger, but too late, his aim ruined by the fall. Three shots went harmlessly into the ceiling.

His back hit the ground first, followed by his head and gun hand. The force of the impact popped the gun out of his grip and sent the Colt skittering across the floor.

Alice pounced on him. She straddled his chest and began slashing his face with the scalpel. Blood spurted as the tempered steel of the #10 blade sliced down his left cheek, up his right cheek, across his chin.

Blake screeched in pain. He looked into Alice’s maniacal face; she was pure animal now desperately fighting for her survival.

In his periphery vision Blake could see the gun on the floor, eight or nine feet away. He had to get her off him and reach the gun.

She slashed again, this time the knife sliced across his forehead, opening a flap of skin and sending a river of blood into Blake’s eyes.

He let out a roar, placed his hand on her chest and shoved as hard as he could. Alice fell back, tumbling off him. He was free.

Blake clambered toward the gun. His right leg was useless, so he pulled himself across the floor with his hands as his blood drenched the floor.

He could hear Alice scrambling to her feet behind him. He reached out, his fingertips touching the gun. Got you, he thought.

But as he tightened his grip on the Colt, Alice drove the scalpel through the back of his hand pinning it to the floor.

He screamed in agony.

Alice plucked the gun off the floor, turned it on Blake. Blood poured from the gashes in his face. He looked at her, terrified. “Don’t shoot.”

Hate simmered off Alice. The rape was Blake’s idea. She’d watched him direct her degradation. He was actually going to try and use her rape to re-launch his movie career. And now he was begging for mercy.

“I know people,” Blake pleaded. “I can help you get away, out of the country with a new identity and plenty of money. Just please, don’t shoot.”

Alice thought about it then slowly lowered the gun.

Unexpected hope filled Blake’s eyes.

And that’s when she shot him — right between those hope-filled eyes.

Alice dug through the medicine cabinet in Blake’s bathroom. It was a veritable drug store. Her bloodstained hands shuffled through bottles of Xanax, Ativan and Valium. Depressed much, Blake, she thought.

There were also bottles of Viagra and Cialis, for fun she assumed. There were bottles of Vicodin and Percocet, no doubt for pain. She wasn’t looking for pain pills, but she knew the dull pain in her shoulder would detonate later into agony so she pocketed the Vicodin. There were bottles of Ambien and Lunesta for sleep. There was also a bottle of Valtrex which she knew treated herpes. No surprise there.

She pawed through a variety of drugs she never heard and didn’t care about. What she wanted was an antiseptic, something to disinfect her shoulder wound. And a couple of thick bandages.

Nothing more in the cabinet so she looked under the sink.

Bingo.

She pulled out a bottle of Betadine and a first aid kit with a variety of bandages. She poured the Betadine onto a washcloth then applied it to the entrance wound. She gasped and nearly collapsed as pain engulfed her.

She sat on the toilet, poured more Betadine onto the washcloth and using the mirror to guide her, pressed the washcloth onto the exit wound. This time a soft moan escaped from her lips as the pain crested quickly, then slowly receded.

She ripped open one of the large bandages. She dribbled a little Betadine onto the gauze then placed it over the entrance wound and pressed hard attaching it. It stung like crazy but she was getting used to it. Then she ripped open a second bandage, added a little antiseptic and, using the mirror as a guide again, stuck it on. Okay, she thought. That should stem the bleeding and take care of any infection.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Her white tube top was drenched in blood. Some of it his, most of it hers. And blood was splattered on her face and skin.

In fact, her blood was everywhere. In the living room, dripped on the floor all the way into the bathroom and now all over the sink, floor, and soaked into the washcloth.

There would be no way to clean up this crime scene. The cops were sure to get her DNA this time. But hell, they’ve got her picture, and once they connect Blake, Colin, Adam and Zachary Stone, they’ll know who she is. And until an hour ago she wouldn’t have cared. She wanted to kill four men and she’d done it. The police can pick her up, big deal. Thanks to the Big C she wouldn’t live long enough to stand trial.

But now everything had changed. One more man had to die.

She peeled off the tube top, dropped it to the floor. She grabbed a fresh washcloth, ran it under warm water and started cleaning herself up.

She’d had weeks to prepare for her attack on Blake, Colin, Adam and Stone. She’d researched each one, knew where they lived, worked, ate, drank. She planned their executions down to the tiniest detail.

She wouldn’t have that luxury with her next victim. The cops would be on her tail. The one advantage she had is they would have no idea who she was after.

Alice grabbed a shirt out of Blake’s closet, a tan Tommy Bahama luau shirt that was too big for her, but the shirt tails covered her bloodstained skirt.

Time was the issue now. She had very little of it. Once the cops talked to her parents, they’d find out about her car and apartment and it wouldn’t take too much digging to find out where she lives. So Alice had to move. Fast.

And she’d need more money, enough for a cheap hotel and food for a week or two. She had about twenty two hundred, which would be cutting things close. She needed more.

She searched Blake’s bureau looking for cash or his wallet. Found nothing. It must be on him. So she went back into the living room. She had a horror movie fantasy for an instant that she’d walk into the living room and he’d be gone, and then suddenly appear behind her.

But he lay dead on the floor.

Alice knelt down, patted his pants pockets, felt the wallet in back and fished it out.

Nine hundred and twenty-three dollars. Not bad. She took the money, dropped the wallet onto his chest.

Next she went back into the office. She wanted the video of her rape.

At some point she’d make sure the cops got a copy. She wanted the world to know exactly what happened to her. She wanted the world to know that those scumbags got just what was coming to them.

But not yet. If the cops saw the tape, they’d see the fourth man and figure out what she was up to. But once he was dead, she’d make sure Blake’s masterpiece got a worldwide release.

While Alice watched the video, Blake controlled it with a remote so she didn’t know where the tape itself was. She searched the bookcases found a stack of components: receiver, DVD player, cable box. No VHS player. The recording was made on a video camera so there should have been a tape — unless he burned it to a DVD. She hit open on the DVD player and a disk slid out. It had a white paper label with the title High School Pool Partyscrawled on it.